


Simply Irresistible

by jugheadjones



Series: fp or mary comes out on top [3]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Multi, comic shenanagins, fred fucks up (again), idk if i should tag all the relationships cause they all end in disaster, parentdale, teenage riverparents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-28 21:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14458230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugheadjones/pseuds/jugheadjones
Summary: 16-year-old Fred Andrews gets a lot of dates. In fact, he's famous for never spending a Friday alone. So when he ends up accidentally agreeing to take both Hermione and Sierra out on Friday night, FP is less than surprised. The good news is, FP has a super-genius plan to get him out of it. And if that flops, there's always Mary. And the new foreign exchange student. (And FP, though he'll never ask.)or,Fred's dangerously bad at juggling his commitments. That's where FP comes in.





	Simply Irresistible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bewareoftrips](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewareoftrips/gifts).



> sometimes scenarios come into my head and they’re just so funny I have to write them that’s what this is it’s a big ass mess I know

“What’s got you so happy?” FP demands as they stand facing each other on Friday afternoon in front of the RHS batting cage. Fred’s batting and FP’s feeding the pitching machine, the two of them killing time before practice begins. It’s 3PM, and school’s just let out, the sun warm and golden on their shoulders and the back of their necks.

Fred swings the bat again so that it whistles strong and aimless through the air, missing the ball by a mile. His goofy grin takes up his whole face. “I’ve got a date with an angel,” he sing-songs, his eyes fixed dreamily on a point somewhere far beyond where FP can see. Far beyond where any of these pitches are landing, too.

“What, tonight?” deadpans FP. “I thought you had a date with Hermione.”

Fred scowls at him, his first scowl since that morning, smoothed over almost instantly into another sappy smile. “Same thing.”

“News to me.” FP tosses another ball in the pitching machine. “Try to hit this one.”

It’s no use. Fred swings early and the bat goes spinning out of his hands, rattling the chain link of the batting cage when it hits the fence. He just grins when it does. FP could swear he was humming the whole time.

“I’ll get it,” Fred declares cheerfully, heading toward the sidelines to rescue his bat. FP rolls his eyes and takes a break, working his water bottle out of his backpack and taking a swig. He turns when he hears a third pair of footsteps in the dry gravel, approaching the two of them from the direction of the parking lot.

“Fred?” It’s Sierra, dressed in an orange floral-print sundress and sensible white shoes. She leans up against the fence next to the batting cage, acting as though FP doesn’t exist. Fred pops up from where he’d been bending in the dirt, glowing. He has a cute little smudge of dust on his nose, but otherwise he looks as clean and as presentable as if he had just waltzed out of the shower.

“Hi Sierra!”

The student body president beams, revealing straight white teeth as she tosses her long braids over her shoulder. “Just wanted to make sure you’re still picking me up at eight,” she says.

“Eight,” repeats Fred cheerfully. “Dinner and dancing, right?”

Sierra frowns a bit, but the smile doesn’t leave her eyes. “You bet.”

“Sounds perfect. I’ll be there.”

FP shakes his head as Fred props his elbows up on the fence, chatting away. He starts gathering up their stray baseballs and bats, stowing them one by one in their borrowed equipment bag. As soon as he’s done, Sierra excuses herself and Fred comes skipping back to his side.

“I thought your date was with Hermione,” FP states, reaching out to brush the dust off his friend’s nose.

“Yeah, me too,” frowns Fred, looking after Sierra. “I must be losing my marbles. Maybe I’m going out with Hermione tomorrow.”

“I’d check that if I were you.” FP shoulders their bag. “Ready to go?”

“You bet!” Fred chatters aimlessly in his ear all the way back toward the field, swinging his bat. “Sierra’s swell, isn’t she? We’re going to that new teen disco on the beach. I think next time I’m gonna take her rollerskating. What do you think? Should I do it on the pier? Or at the-“

“Fred!”

No sooner have they reached the edge of the grass than Hermione herself is waltzing up to them, her expensive earrings flashing in the sunlight. Fred lights up like a neon sign, dropping the bat he’d been carrying hard on FP’s foot.

“Hermione!” he professes dreamily, as if they were lovers who had been separated for years instead of just since last period. FP scoops the bat up off the ground, scowling.

“I’ll be ready by seven-thirty,” Hermione’s saying, her expensive perfume wafting nauseatingly toward FP’s nostrils in the absence of a breeze. “Oh, maybe eight. Let’s say eight. So pick me up then.”

“Pick you up?” Fred repeats, his megawatt smile still in place, but more strained. “That’s tonight, right?”

Hermione’s examining her manicure. “Obviously.” She beams at Fred and gives him a big smooch on the cheek. “I have to go to practice. But I’m really looking forward to it. I’ll see you then.”

“See you then,” Fred repeats heartily, smiling dreamily out across the field as Hermione walks away. As soon as she’s out of sight, the smile slips off his face as though it had melted on contact. FP tries and fails to keep a straight face.

“This, uh, seems like quite the pickle you’ve got yourself in, Freddie.”

Fred turns on him, desperation glowing in his eyes. “You’ve gotta help me, FP. I’m a dead man. Please.”

“This is like the third time this month, buddy. You’re beyond help.”

“FP!!” Fred seizes him by the shirt. “This is a matter of life or death! What do I do?!”

“All right, keep your shirt on.” FP looks down at the baseball bat he’s holding in his hands. “I’ve got an idea.”

“Please!” Fred clutches FP’s sleeve even tighter. “I’ll do anything. I swear if you get me out of this I’ll owe you for a year. For the rest of my life!”

“I doubt that.” FP tosses the bat on the grass a few feet away from them, an idea slowly taking shape in his head. “Okay, pretend this just hit your ankle. Drop.”

Fred jumps in almost too quick. He falls to the grass with a dramatic scream that draws the curious glances of a group of freshman by the bleachers. FP rolls his eyes.

“Can the play-acting,” FP complains, opening the bag and rifling through for the first aid kit. “I just wanted you down on the ground. Here’s the story. Your ankle’s broken. I wrap it up using my very best first aid knowledge, and you tell the girl of your choice you can’t take them dancing tonight. Leaves you free to take the other one out.” Fred expels a huge sigh of relief, and Fp laughs despite himself. “You can thank me later. In cash or in food.”

Fred is looking up at him with eyes as big as saucers. “You’re a genius. I owe you my life.”

“Yeah, you probably do,” FP admits. He works Fred’s shoe off and unrolls a roll of bandages, carefully stretching the gauze around his friend’s uninjured foot. “Just remember what happened last time you faked an injury. Don’t open any doors with your pretend broken hand.”

“Can I help it that I’m a gentleman?” Fred winces. “Not so tight.”

“This is the way it’s supposed to be done,” argues FP, admiring his handiwork. “I took that first aid class, remember?”

“So did I! I sat right next to you!”

“Yeah, but you were ogling the instructor the whole time,” points out FP. Fred pouts.

“Can I help it if I have a thing for redheads?”

“She was also like, twenty-five. And so totally married. She was wearing a wedding band.”

“Well, the guy instructor was cute too.” Fred sticks his leg out a bit further so FP can finish the job. His ankle is now a white, shapeless lump under the gauze. “That looks good.”

“Okay, there you go,” FP looks around. The locker where the athletes keep their first aid equipment is only a few feet away. “Sit tight while I grab a stretcher. We’re doing this thing full out, or not at all.”

“I love you,” says Fred very seriously. “You know that?”

“Fred!” FP looks up to see Harry Clayton is sprinting toward them, his face contorted in pain. “Please tell me that’s not what it looks like. We’re toast against Rival without you.”

“Don’t have a cow, Harry,” speaks up FP. “His ankle’s fine. Just get me a stretcher and we’ll let you in on a secret.”

Harry looks from one to the other. “He’s not hurt?”

“He’s troubled in the head,” says FP, winking at Fred. “But he’ll live. What you’re witnessing is a very advanced piece of performance art. Fred trying to weasel his way out of a predicament.”

Harry laughs, wrinkling his nose. “I should have known. What do you need me to do?”

“Grab the stretcher,” speaks up Fred, hauling himself up off his elbows. “I need you guys to carry me past Sierra.”

Fp sighs. “Not the cheerleaders?”

Fred looks shocked, as though the thought of breaking a date with Hermione was on par with murder. Then he re-arranges his expression into one of sorrow. “FP, don’t make this harder on me than it is.”

“I’m no expert on such things,” speaks up FP as Harry returns with a folding stretcher, “but the day these girls realize they deserve better than the likes of you, you’re in big shit.”

“Here you go.” Harry spreads the stretcher out flat on the ground next to him.

“You’re a saint, Harry,” says FP. Harry just shrugs, a disarming grin lighting his handsome features.

“Anything for a friend. Just don’t tell me any more. The less I know the better.”

FP glances over his shoulder as Fred wriggles onto the stretcher. Once Fred is on, he rises to pick up one end. Harry takes the other and they carefully carry Fred across the field toward the school.

“Act hurt,” FP advises him, and Fred obediently puts on a forlorn expression. “She’s probably over by the cafeteria.”

Sure enough, Sierra is seated in a circle with some girlfriends on the grass, their books spread out in front of them. When she sees Harry and FP she jumps to her feet, hurrying over to the stretcher.

“What happened?” Sierra demands. Fred grabs for his bandaged ankle, an expression of deepest agony contorting his face. Harry looks amused, but says nothing. FP steps up to the plate.

“Broken ankle,” he reports. “It’s really bad. I don’t think he’s going to walk for awhile. We’re taking him to the hospital.”

“Sierra, I’m so sorry,” whispers Fred. He reaches out for her hand like he’s the lead actor on a soap opera. “I really am sorry. I guess I’ll have to break our date for tonight.”

“No, Fred, it’s fine.” Sierra shakes her head. “We’ll do a rain check, okay?” Her girlfriends, all looking various degrees of concerned, are standing up to get a better view of Fred on the stretcher. “Don’t worry about it.”

“We should go,” says FP, nodding to the school. Sierra steps back and nods.

“I’m heading home too. I’ll call you later, Fred.”

“Sorry,” Fred apologizes again as Harry and FP carry him carefully away. Fortunately, he’s light. They get as far as the soccer field before FP gives the stretcher a purposeful jostle.

“We’re gonna put you down now. Mission accomplished.”

Fred is very silent, laying flat on the stretcher. “Am I a bad person?” he asks to the sky.

“Yes,” chimes in Harry at the same time as FP says “No.” FP glares him down, and Harry quickly backtracks.

“I’m just kidding. You’re fine.”

“It was my idea, remember,” FP adds. “So I’m the bad person, not you.”

Of course that cheers Fred up. “You’re right!” he exclaims, sitting up a bit on the stretcher. “Thanks F-“

“Fred!”

FP turns around and almost drops him. Hermione’s in her cheerleading uniform now, flanked by two other members of the cheerleading squad. She strides furiously up to the stretcher and stops with her hands planted on her hips.

“What the hell happened? Sierra just told me!”

“I- um- it’s-“ stammers Fred. “It’s not what-“

Hermione’s expression abruptly softens and she lays a gentle hand against Fred’s cheek. FP bites his tongue to keep from laughing.

“You poor thing,” she says softly. “You can’t go dancing like this, can you?”

Fred swallows so hard that his throat bobs. “Maybe we can stay in and watch a-“

Hermione shakes her head. “I absolutely have to go. I promised. Don’t worry, I’ll get Hiram to take me. You just stay home and rest up.”

“No!” gasps Fred, but Hermione ignores him, leaning in to plant a kiss on his forehead. The cheerleaders murmur appreciatively behind her. FP can see Fred’s cheeks turning pink.

“Don’t worry about a thing, Freddie. I’ll take care of it.”

“No, I’ll dance!”

Hermione glares at him. “Not a chance! I would never ask you to do that.”

I heal really fast!” Fred pleads, but it falls on deaf ears. Hermione kisses him again on the cheek and waves her squadmates back toward the field.

“Come on. I have to call Hiram before we start practice.”

The dead silence she leaves in her wake is like a thundercloud. Fred’s expression would be priceless if it wasn’t so sad. FP is conscientiously staying silent for fear of breaking into laughter. So it’s Harry who speaks first, his tone incredulous.

“Did I just witness Fred go from having two dates in one night to having none?”

“Put me down!” gripes Fred, and Harry and FP obediently lower him to the grass. Fred springs up on his bandaged foot, using FP’s shoulder briefly for balance. His face has gone from pink to scarlet. FP imagines cartoon smoke billowing out of his ears.

“Well,” says Harry hesitantly. “This has been interesting. But I should get back to the field and help Kleats set up.”

“Yeah, you’re dismissed,” says FP with a grin. Fred still hasn’t spoken. “Sorry you had to see all that.”

“Hey, like I said. Less I know the better.” Harry tips his ball cap at them. “See you, Fred.”

Suddenly Fred’s face goes from humiliated and tense to euphoric. “Hey!” he says excitedly, all sunshine again. “There’s Mary!”

“Yeah, I'm leaving,” says Harry quickly. FP follows Fred’s gaze. Sure enough, Mary is strolling across the soccer field toward the cheerleading practice.

“Fred-“ tries FP cautiously as Harry walks away. “I know you don’t mean anything bad by this. I know you’re just full of love or whatever. And I know you’re not cheating or anything, but one of these days someone’s going to get seriously hurt, and it might be you, or-“

“FP, I respect everything you’re saying,” says Fred hurriedly, still hanging onto FP’s shoulder despite his upright position, “but this is going to work, I swear.”

“Fred-“

“Don’t say anything,” Fred whispers. “Maybe I can get some sympathy points and Mary’ll go out with me tonight.”

FP rolls his eyes. “Fine. My lips are sealed.”

“Fred?” Mary asks when she gets closer, a soft frown creasing her brow at the sight of the bandages. “What happened? Are you okay? That looks awful.”

“It’s pretty bad,” says Fred solemnly. FP fights an urge to roll his eyes. “I might have a limp for the rest of my life, actually.”

“But he heals fast,” FP tosses in helpfully. Fred steps on his toe. To his credit, he remembers to use the one that isn’t bandaged.

“You poor thing,” says Mary sympathetically. She turns to look at FP, who does his best to arrange his features into a look of concern. “Can I do anything to help?”

“Well I’m going to be pretty lonely while I’m recovering,” says Fred in his softest most pitiful voice. “I think a movie tonight would help me get my mind off it.”

FP eyes up the nearest trash can, thinking he might seriously hurl it this goes on long enough. But Mary puts her foot down, her voice firm.

“I wouldn’t think of it. You have to rest. Hey, there’s your coach.” She turns and indicates Coach Kleats, who had just stepped out of the gym doors. “I’ll tell him there’s no way you can play in Monday’s game.”

“Uh-“ protests Fred awkwardly, but Mary’s already heading off across the field toward Kleats. Fred grits his teeth, open anxiety replacing his woe-is-me demeanour as he watches her go. Very aware he’s watching his friend’s life fall apart in front of his very eyes, FP quickly looks down and examines his nails.

Mary comes trotting back after a moment, her sneakers rustling the new-mown grass. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Fred. He says he was gonna start you on Monday, but seeing as you’re hurt, he’ll put Myles McCoy on instead.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come over and watch a video tonight or something?” asks Fred weakly. Fp can see his hands curled almost imperceptibly into fists.

“Oh, no, I have too much homework to do. But maybe another night.” She glances up at FP, and FP could swear she winks at him. “I hope you feel better.”

“Thanks, Mary,” replies FP after a pause, when it’s clear Fred isn’t going to say anything. The redhead smiles at the two of them and hoists her book bag up higher on her shoulders before walking away.

“Are you kidding me?!” Fred explodes when Mary’s out of earshot. His face is turning as pink as bubblegum. “Myles is starting for us?! I hate that guy!”

FP gestures helplessly with his hands. Fred turns on him, frustration and hurt gleaming in his eyes.

“So much for your great plan, FP! You suck!”

“Fred, I’m sorry, but how in the hell was I supposed to foresee this?” FP deflates a bit at the injured look on Fred’s face. “Hey, I’ll make it up to you.”

“Yes…” says Fred slowly. FP sees the beginnings of a new scheme dawning in his eyes, replacing the injury. “You will.”

“Oh, no.” FP folds his arms protectively across his chest. “I know that look.”

“What look?” asks Fred innocently, as though he’s not standing there like an idiot with one foot wrapped in gauze.

“You’re gonna make me do something I don’t want to do. I can tell.”

“It’s not much,” protests Fred. “Just give me the number of that new exchange student.”

“No way!”

“Come on, please! I know you have it!”

“Bobbie and I are lab partners!”

“FP, please! I’ve been trying to impress her forever! You ruined my date, it’s the least you can do!”

“I’d say I saved your life,” grumbles FP. “Hermione and Sierra would have cooked you alive if they found out.”

Fred shrugs. “What’s life without a little risk? _Please_. Imagine if she goes back to France without ever having a date with me. That’s so harsh.”

“She’s from Canada, you idiot.”

Fred lights up, undeterred. “Perfect. I already speak Canadian.”

“Fred, I can’t even look at you right now. You’ve just gone through four girls in the space of an hour. How is that even remotely normal to you?”

Fred sighs, switching tactics. “Look. Why don’t you come too? It’ll be the three of us. Just friends. We can get to know each other. My Friday night’s already ruined, it can’t get any worse.”

“Thanks,” FP gripes. Truthfully, he’d do just about anything for something even approximating a date with Fred. So maybe he’d agree to something a little stupid. “What makes you think she’ll want to hang out with us?”

“Just ask. Come on. Or give me the number. I took French last semester for a reason.”

“I’ll call her,” corrects FP. He drops Fred hard on his bandaged foot. “Just stay there and don’t talk to anything or anyone.”

To his surprise, his lab partner has nothing else to do on a Friday night and is more than willing to hang out with the two of them- provided the meeting takes place over American diner food at the Chok’lit shoppe, which Bobbie adores. Bobbie is a pretty, athletic brunette with curly hair, and despite Fred hanging on her every word all night, the three of them get on like wildfire. Fred makes Bobbie laugh a good handful of times, and by the end of their basket of fries, they’ve both plopped their drinking straws into the same Coke.

Trying to play the good wingman, FP hops up from the booth to use the bathroom as Bobbie and Fred are discussing the merits of splitting a milkshake. He’s on his way back to the booth after what he’s judged to be an acceptable amount of time when the sound of a female voice makes him pause.

“How’s that ankle feeling, Fred?”

FP ducks behind the corner of the wall and peeks out. Fred and Bobbie are surrounded by Hermione and Sierra, both of them looking absolutely murderous.

“You have some nerve, Fred Andrews!” Sierra exclaims passionately, stomping her foot.

“Sierra and I have been comparing notes,” announces Hermione with a mighty flip of her dark hair. “And let’s just say you’d better start talking.”

“I don’t even mind you did it to me,” adds Sierra cooly. “But now you’re stringing along this poor girl?” She gestures sympathetically at Bobbie, whose look of confusion is slowly hardening into one of distaste. “Grow up.”

“FP-“ chokes out Fred, gesturing at the vacant place in the booth, but the girls won’t hear it. Bobbie stands up.

“You’re a jerk and your French sucks,” she pronounces, her English pitch-perfect. Sierra nods, stepping back to accommodate the exchange student into their ranks. The three of them face off against Fred in an angry wall.

“Hey,” says Fred, in his hasty peacekeeper voice, a warm smile breaking out on his face, “why don’t we all have a soda together? We can all get to know each other better.”

“Are you kidding me?” deadpans Sierra, but Hermione breaks out her best cheerleader grin.

“That’s a great idea, Fred,” FP hears her say, her voice syrup-sweet. She grabs a precariously full Oreo milkshake off the nearest table. “Let’s all share this one. On the house.”

Hermione upends the milkshake on top of Fred’s head, holding it upside down for a long time, until every last bit has run out. Fred’s hand flies up to cover his eyes, but otherwise he just sits and takes it. The booth and the floor are soaked through. With a huff, Hermione flings the glass into the space on the vinyl FP had vacated and storms away, Bobbie and Sierra following her.

FP slowly approaches the table when he hears the door jingle. Fred just sits there with his head bowed, dripping Oreo.

“Just say it.” He says when FP gets near.

“I told you so,” whispers FP, and wipes a thumb across Fred’s forehead before licking his fingers clean. “Mm. You taste good.”

“You can clean up in the back, Freddie,” calls Pop Tate from the counter, as nonplussed as if this happened every weekend. “And then you can mop my floor.”

“Look on the bright side,” suggests FP as Fred slides out of the booth, a good amount of milkshake sliding down the front of his new Levi’s. “You won’t have a date with two girls at once for a real long time.”

“Maybe I’ll just tell everyone I’ve sworn off women.”

FP bites his lip, his voice teasing. “What’s the alternative?”

“Boys!” Pop is getting impatient. He holds out a mop. “People are staring. Please.”

Fred slumps over to the counter, FP trailing him, still trying in vain to cheer him up.

“At least you’ve got something to do on Friday night,” says FP sympathetically, hunting down a second mop from the supply cupboard as Fred drags the bucket over to their booth. He sees Fred’s mouth twitch as if he’s trying to hide a smile, and ups the ante. “And let’s face it. I’m all you really need, right?”

“Shut up,” moans Fred, scrubbing his face clean of milkshake with a napkin. “It’s your fault I’m in this mess.”

“This is in no way my fault.”

“I’ll never have another date until I’m forty. This is the worst day of my life.”

“Oh, come on. Hermione’ll get bored with Hiram in a week. As for Sierra, she’ll forgive and forget. And Bobbie’ll go back to Quebec and you’ll never see her again. And think of all the money you’ll save in the meantime.”

Fred pauses, wiping more milkshake-sodden hair out of his face. “How do you always know what to say?”

FP turns away so Fred won’t see him smile.

 


End file.
